


Clarity

by stardropdream



Category: xxxHoLic
Genre: Multi
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-01-13
Updated: 2013-01-13
Packaged: 2017-11-25 09:58:36
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,818
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/637690
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/stardropdream/pseuds/stardropdream
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>There are days when he feels that aiming is too hard, that it is better to release and anticipate what happens, but then he sees his mismatched eyes and her gentle smile, and he knows that he is willing to bear the weight.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Clarity

**Author's Note:**

> Doumeki-centric fic. Also, I apologize for the horrible inaccuracies of archery described, as Japanese archery is actually very different from European-style archery (which is what described here). 
> 
> Originally posted on LJ February 22, 2009.

He describes his bow in a manner that leaves those unfamiliar with archery in confusion, and after a slight pause most ask hesitantly, “Wait… so your bow… weighs fifty-five pounds?”   
  
With the look of perfect blankness, he wishes to explain the concept of drawing weight and the effort necessary to restrain the spring of the curved bow and the snapping acceleration that fires a shaft with deceiving force. The ache that develops in the biceps, spreads to the wrist of the left arm, spikes through the right shoulder, the agony held and ignored on three fingertips, all of this is lost upon most that have only observed and never practiced.   
  
“Hn,” he says instead, and lets one of his fellow club members explain instead.   
  
During club activities, he can see Himawari in the windows to the school, sorting out necessary paperwork for teachers. He can see Watanuki walking towards Yuuko’s shop most days, and some days he sees Himawari and Watanuki walking home together. Sometimes, Watanuki lingers, claiming it’s for Himawari that he waits, but it always seems that some days that the two of them remain and the three walk home together after the club dismisses for the day.   
  
“Doumeki-kun is so disciplined,” Himawari remarks, with her customary smile crinkling the corner of her large eyes. Tanpopo chirps in agreement, fluttering his wings and pecking affectionately at Doumeki’s ear as the little bird flies by.   
  
“Disciplined to a childish pastime,” Watanuki gripes, though his words lack venom.  
  
Doumeki stares at him, face perfectly neutral, before holding out his bow to him in a silent challenge. Watanuki flares up, his hackles raised. He yanks the bow from Doumeki’s outstretched hand and holds it clumsily, unaccustomed to the weapon.   
  
Doumeki pushes Watanuki into the proper position, ignoring the other boy’s shouts of outrage at being manhandled by such a brute, and Himawari smiles and follows the two of them to the shooting range. Once Watanuki is in the proper position, Doumeki points to each necessary instrument: this is the bow. This is the arrow. This is the finger guard. (“I KNOW!” Watanuki shouts angrily, but Doumeki ignores him and continues.) The noch goes on this string here, white fletching always out, one fingertip on the string above the noch, two below; straight and locked left arm, draw to the corner of the eye, and hold.   
  
Release on the exhale, and reach for another arrow. These are basic mechanics.   
  
Watanuki scoffs at him but nevertheless follows the instructions when a well-placed “Watanuki-kun looks so poised” from Himawari fuels him forward.   
  
What Doumeki fails to mention is the period of time between the draw and the snick sound of the arrow accelerating off the rest. That is something that cannot be properly explained, and Watanuki isn’t listening anyway, too busy flexing muscles in hopes of catching Himawari’s eye.   
  
The arrow sails off of the bow and lands profoundly and diligently into the soil a few footsteps away. Watanuki stares at the arrow and then his fingers under the leather tab.   
  
Himawari claps. “Amazing, Watanuki-kun.”   
  
There is no malice in her voice, but genuine excitement for his breakthrough in the art of archery. Tanpopo flies around Watanuki’s head before settling back on the girl’s shoulder and she smiles at the two boys.   
  
Watanuki is blushing, other from the annoyance of such a poor performance or love for Himawari’s encouragement. “It’s just a warm up!” he announces, shooting a warning glare at Doumeki when he smirks and turning love-struck eyes towards the curly haired girl. “The next shot will be even better, Himawari-chan!”   
  
Doumeki is smirking, the slightest hint of a curve in his otherwise expressionless face. Anyone else would have missed it, but Himawari is smiling at him in return and Watanuki is snapping at him to shut his mouth (despite him not even making a move to open it). The result of the arrow shot wasn’t what Watanuki expected, but he soon came to know the feeling well as Doumeki made him continue to shoot the arrow for a quarter of an hour that afternoon. He helped him with shooting form and creating muscle memory—on relaxing the fingers’ tips to let the string slip off smoothly.   
  
There are questions about archery that Doumeki cannot answer, not because he doesn’t want to (or because he does not often speak unnecessarily) but because he does not know how to put it into words. The feeling that he didn’t even know how to quantify, the one that he wasn’t quite sure if other people observed or felt or even knew about.   
  
When observing an archer, the period of time between the click of the noch onto the string and the thunk of the target impact is usually around five seconds. When he shoots, this period of time is an expanse: a familiar birdsong is now silent, his field of vision now covers the shaft and tip of the waiting arrow to the face of the squat box across the field. Breaths echo in his head and heartbeats resound in his left palm that is pushing the bow away from his chest. The ache of the strain grows after a day of shooting and fingertips feel raw even under the leather padding, throbbing due to the power of the double curves balanced on their tips alone. He hasn’t the strength or the training to immobilize either the locked left arm or the right hand drawn to the corner of his eye, and the view down the shaft reveals this: the landscape wobbles around the tip of the arrow, imperceptible to an observer but churning and tumultuous in the shooter’s eye. The tip wavers across the target and down before one can correct, then it is up a hair but seems to now be pointing to the sky.   
  
Watanuki fights the strain. The slight jerks of correction were visible even to Himawari, and Doumeki knew that to him it must have felt like the target was rolling up and down across the field. If his hand went high, he’d correct and the arrow would sink into the ground several yards short. Stepping back, he would shake the pain out of his right hand and cover it with brushing off his shoulders and flexing for Himawari again.   
  
“Don’t try to make the shot happen,” Doumeki cuts in, breaking the uninterrupted silence up to that moment. It was not often that it was Doumeki who broke the silences between the three. “Wait for it to happen.”   
  
“Don’t tell me what to do, you oaf!” Watanuki shouts and in his haste he overcorrects his shot and the arrow goes soaring upwards before arching downwards and landing with a soft thump into the soft earth a few feet away.   
  
“Wait for the golden moment,” Doumeki says again when another shot failed to reach its intended target.   
  
Watanuki glares at him and snaps, “The what?”   
  
Doumeki regards him with calm composure, his words heavy and enigmatic and somehow not relating only to archery: “The moment when you know the shot is going right where you want it. The instant of clarity.”   
  
Watanuki was still glaring, but Himawari smiles softly at the two of them, sitting on the fence lining the archery field. Tanpopo sits on her fingers, watching Doumeki and Watanuki with an intelligence unlike any bird Doumeki had seen before.   
  
“Focus,” Doumeki reminds.   
  
“Shut up,” Watanuki growls, but when he turns back towards the targets, his arm seems steadier, and his eyes narrow in concentration, straining against the bow’s power and force.   
  
  
\---  
  
  
The draw weight of his bow is fifty-five pounds, representing the force that is required to draw an arrow back thirty-two inches. In one burst of strength, most people can haul the arrow to the corner of their eye before the three fingertips of the right hand give way and let the arrow snap. When shooting for accuracy, every draw feels as if it spans hours. The arms ache and develop tremors, the shoulders clench, but the fingertips on the string scream with the weight held upon them.   
  
Yet through all of this, the mind needs to be in control.  
  
When in control, the mind is able to slow tremors and block the surges of pain coming from fingertips holding fire. The world slows with his breathing, and vision grays around the edges, giving the arrow and everything downrange sharp detail.   
  
Holding a full draw, all thought is silenced. Doumeki exists, locked in place, numb in mind and body, watching the arrow tip wander while concentrating on self control.   
  
Waiting.  
  
Waiting.  
  
Always, always waiting.   
  
  
\---  
  
  
When Watanuki finally hits the target, Himawari brightens considerably and claps for him again, cheering him on. He twirls and gushes towards her and Doumeki stands stoically, arms crossed.  
  
“Oi, idiot,” Doumeki calls.   
  
Watanuki whips around and is all smirks. “What? Unhappy you’re not the only king of archery anymore, flat-face?”   
  
Doumeki rolls his eyes and plucks his bow from Watanuki’s clenched hands. Watanuki’s hands are shaking from the strain, but Doumeki says nothing.  
  
“Go get the arrows, idiot,” Doumeki grunts.   
  
“Don’t tell me what to do,” Watanuki shouts, but stomps off to collect the arrows littering the archery field.   
  
Himawari watches him go, the wind playing gently with her hair so it flutters around her. Her eyes are soft as she watches Watanuki and when she turns her head to look at Doumeki looking at her, her eyes are still just as gentle and kind.   
  
She’s smiling. “I never asked before, but… why did you get into archery, Doumeki-kun?”  
  
Doumeki moves so he’s standing beside where she sits, leaning against the fence post. He lifts a hand and pets Tanpopo on the head, who chirps in happiness at the attention.   
  
“It’s meditating,” Doumeki decides after a length pause he knows Himawari won’t take for rudeness.   
  
“I think I understand,” Himawari says, smiling thoughtfully.   
  
They watch Watanuki collect the arrows in silence for a long moment.   
  
“Hn,” Doumeki says after a moment and Himawari laughs warmly.   
  
“Doumeki-kun is very skilled, to be able to shoot so well and help Watanuki-kun, too,” Himawari praises, and there is only genuine affection and awe in her voice. He knows that perhaps part of her wishes to pick up the bow and try it for herself, but he also knows that there is something inside her that will restrain her from ever touching a weapon.   
  
He sighs lightly as Watanuki plucks the last, and only, arrow in the target and starts trotting back towards the two of them, waiting for him. They’ll walk home together, in the end.   
  
There are days when he feels that aiming is too hard, that it is better to release and anticipate what happens, but then he sees his mismatched eyes and her gentle smile, and he knows that he is willing to bear the weight and just wait.  
  
Always, always waiting.


End file.
